An Exercise In Insanity
by AnbarElectrum
Summary: Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Insanity is asking the same question over and over again in hopes that someday you'll get the answer you want. Insanity is what Sephiroth does best. [In which Cloud decides he should Have Words with Sephiroth before the latter dies and it somehow becomes their new routine.] Gen; mild gore.
1. Stage One

_**A/N: My turn at the helm of the good ship Cloud-Is-Immortal-And-Sephiroth-Is-Bored, in the form of five conversation-centric, ever-lengthening quasi-drabbles.**_ _ ** _ **Because apparently, weird introspective archnemesis bonding time is what I do best.**_ Mild Sefikura undertones, as I have discovered it is impossible to write an in-character post-Crisis Sephiroth who isn't at least making the odd surreptitious and creepy pass in Cloud's direction, bless.**_ _ **  
**_

* * *

"Stay where you belong—in my memories.

"I will… _never_ …be a memory."

 _It didn't take much thought to figure out what Sephiroth meant by that. He'd already come back to life twice before, and those words marked his third death at Cloud's hands. It wasn't exactly a surprise when he came back for round four…or five…or six…_

'I will never be a memory,' _he'd said aloud. But the words that echoed in Cloud's mind, his mental defenses weakened by their battle, were different, and far more worrying:_

I am so much _more_ than that…

 _And he proves it. Over, and over, and over again. Cloud sometimes wonders if he means to go on proving it forever._

 _He doesn't dare ask._

* * *

 **[ν] εγλ – 0052**

They get to talking, after a while. 'A while', actually, is several decades. Mostly, they talk while Sephiroth lies dying, and over the years Cloud gets better and better at incapacitating him, because as the years go by they turn into decades and Cloud knows he will soon be all but alone.

Sephiroth is not kind, Cloud knows, not by nature or by deed, but that he fails to mention this shift in behaviour is a kindness in itself. In any case, Cloud is grateful for it. To say Sephiroth has mellowed with time would be a lie, but in those fleeting moments when Cloud has won but Sephiroth has yet to die, he seems more companion than enemy.

"How long has it been?"

Just as Sephiroth pretends not to notice Cloud's lapses, Cloud pretends he doesn't see the blood on the would-be god's lips as he speaks. It takes a little more effort to ignore the torn, shattered ruin of his legs, the bleeding stump of his sword hand, the crumpled mass of blood, bone, and feathers which was once a wing. Cloud thinks next time, he won't make so much of a mess if he can avoid it.

"Six years," Cloud replies, sounding indifferent. He holds his sword in front of him, point pressed against the ground, and every so often he finds himself absent-mindedly twirling the hilt between his fingers. Crouching on a rock like this isn't exactly comfortable, but he supposes that of the two of them, he's probably better off.

"Six years," Sephiroth echoes thoughtfully, staring up past Cloud towards the sky.

Cloud looks away as well, eyes roving over their battlefield. Decades of clean rain have finally begun to heal the cracked, ruined ground of the Midgar Wastes, little thickets of tough grass and hardy weeds springing up in the sheltered, recessed crags where the water gathers, but if there was anything trying to grow in this place, it has been thoroughly annihilated in the last few hours. He imagines Sephiroth would be amused by that, if he deigned to notice such an unimportant detail. But Sephiroth is still watching the sky.

"What're you looking for, up there?" Cloud asks finally, looking over his shoulder in an attempt to see as Sephiroth sees.

A weak chuckle is his only answer for a long moment. Then: "Impact."

"What?" He returns his gaze to Sephiroth.

"Impact," Sephiroth repeats, meeting Cloud's eyes once again. "A difference, a change, a sign, some indication that the Planet even notices anything I've done."

Cloud snorts. "The Weapons weren't enough _impact_ for you?"

"Once, the mere _threat_ of my resurrection was enough to make the earth scream and the skies weep. The Weapons awoke in force because the Planet couldn't imagine a single greater threat to Its survival than the one I posed. Now It is content to suffer my presence." Oddly enough, Sephiroth smiles, blinking slowly up at Cloud. "I hear only whispers, but it seems the Planet considers me to be your purpose in life. As far as It is concerned, you exist only to protect It from me. And with the responsibility in your hands, It is free to act as though I do not even exist. How pitiful…"

Cloud thinks vaguely that Sephiroth was probably hoping for more of a reaction than what he got: a shrug. "Planet's got a funny way of lookin' at things."

Their conversation subsides again, the only sounds between them the occasional _ting_ of the Fusion Swords bouncing off of rock and Sephiroth's breathing, which is growing increasingly laboured. He's bleeding out quite slowly, Cloud notes absently, healing almost as fast as he's dying, but only _almost;_ he must be in a great deal of pain.

When next Sephiroth speaks, Cloud can barely hear him; his voice is weak. "Will you miss me?"

"No," Cloud says. Sephiroth has taken to asking this question lately. Cloud's answer never changes, nor does his conviction ever waver.

Sephiroth smiles faintly, eyes slipping closed. "Ah well…" he breathes, and more than he sees or hears Cloud _feels_ that this breath is his last as the terrible bond between them goes quiet. Sephiroth's heart falters, then stops; his dimming consciousness flares just once more and goes dark.

Cloud stays a little longer, watching with a kind of morbid fascination as the broken, empty thing that used to be Sephiroth disintegrates into a light that isn't quite the Lifestream colour he knows so well—the green a little too bright, too harsh, the glow edged with a sickly blackness. Then he stands, sheathing his sword, and walks away from the battlefield.

Not once does he glance back.


	2. Stage Two

**[ν] εγλ – 0193**

"How long this time?"

"Two years."

"Hmm… It's an inexact process," Sephiroth offers, sounding almost apologetic. He _looks_ infuriatingly smug, _as usual._ "Were you lonely?"

Cloud's hand tightens on the hilt of his sword. It _infuriates_ him that the injuries he's inflicted haven't humbled Sephiroth in the slightest. How _dare_ he be so haughty, when Cloud has brought him low yet _again?_ "Shut up," he growls, glaring down at his nemesis, who is slumped against the mouth of the cave. The air up here is cold and thin, chilling him down to the bone and knifing through his lungs, a familiar pain he remembers from the harsh winters of his childhood. Why they fought in the mountains this time—why Sephiroth _chose_ them as the place of his rebirth—Cloud isn't sure. It's never been the mountains before, not since Nibelheim, anyway.

Then again, he thinks, maybe _that's_ why.

Sephiroth laughs, smirking knowingly up at him. "It's been nearly two centuries since we first fought, Cloud. I know you're alone now."

"No," Cloud says firmly, jaw set. "I'm not."

"Oh? Who's left, then? Your furry little friend whose responsibilities keep him halfway around the globe? The undead gunner who makes _you_ seem downright gregarious?"

Cloud doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. Sephiroth knows he's right.

Sephiroth seems like he's about to speak, but suddenly he flinches, face going blank and his hands pressing more tightly against the gaping wound in his side. Cloud has to catch himself from kneeling down beside him, from reaching out, and disgust wells up inside him just like the blood between Sephiroth's gloved fingers. Healer's reflexes, he supposes, but as far as Cloud is concerned, even his subconscious should know better than to move to help this… _creature._

"You're getting very good at that," Sephiroth finally says, voice low and guttural with pain.

"What?" Cloud asks gruffly.

"Killing me slowly. Drawing it out. Stealing my last moments for yourself." He smiles lazily, watching Cloud through drowsy, dimming eyes. "Greedy, puppet…"

So much for kindness.

"Maybe I want you to suffer for everything you've done," Cloud hisses, leaning over so that he isn't merely standing over Sephiroth, he is blocking him off from the rest of the world, from even the sky outside. "Ever think of that?"

"Have you grown so cruel? I think you're lying. Either way, I win…" Sephiroth's eyes are already shut, breaths barely perceptible. "Will you miss me?" he whispers; it's faint, but Cloud can hear the gloating in his voice.

"No," Cloud snarls, but Sephiroth's smile doesn't falter. Then again, he can't see Cloud snapping one of the side blades from its place on First Tsurugi and hurling it forward. Nor will he see anything more in this lifetime. Cloud is sure his blade killed Sephiroth before he could succumb to his earlier wounds.

Probably.

Either way, he's dead now, and _good riddance._ This time, Cloud doesn't wait for the corpse to fade away, and he storms off, wrapped in his anger and hatred until it's all he sees. Two centuries, and Sephiroth still comes back for more? Fine. Cloud's got _plenty_ more for him. Let him come!

Slowly, Cloud draws to a halt on a narrow ledge, his fists clenched, his jaw set. The hate is thick as poison in his veins, and his eyes burn and his vision blurs as if with tears. But his eyes are dry as bone, and if his breath catches in his throat, it is only because of the heavy killing rage knotting itself up in his chest. His enemy is dead, but his anger isn't spent. And he has nowhere to vent it, now; not until the next time Sephiroth unmakes all that Cloud has accomplished, all that his countless poor dead friends and his handful of worn-down living ones have fought for over the years. There is nothing he can do but be ready, so he stands there. Ready. And he seethes.

 _If he could see me right now,_ Cloud thinks bitterly, _Sephiroth would laugh._


	3. Stage Three

**[ν] εγλ – 0507**

"How long?"

"When will you stay gone?" Cloud asks instead of replying, and he doesn't even care that the words are tinged with desperation. His sword is already sheathed; he's learned by now it has no place in this stage of the battle.

"When you no longer wish it," Sephiroth says hoarsely, with the self-satisfied smile of a particularly devious cat. It's almost enough to distract from the bloody, rusted metal jutting from his middle—rebar, piping, Cloud doesn't know. Doesn't much care, either. Sephiroth's impaled body is draped over the crumbling, overgrown debris of what might have been a skyscraper a few hundred years ago. It's impossible to tell at this point. Midgar isn't much more than a name, now. Cloud is huddled on the ground not far from him, knees drawn up to his chest defensively even as he fixes the Nightmare with a defiant glare. His body is aching, limbs covered in still-bleeding wounds, a long slash cutting over his chest, clothes torn: Sephiroth had been a particularly vicious opponent this time.

Neither of them are all that fond of anniversaries.

Even in the midst of his current misery (he refuses to so much as _think_ of the more accurate word for what he feels, refuses even now to give Sephiroth that satisfaction), it will never cease to irritate him how smooth and confident Sephiroth manages to be right up to the very brink of death. Then, Cloud supposes he must be used to it by now—as used to dying as Cloud is to killing him.

Cloud doesn't _want_ to be used to that. He just—

"I just want it to be _over,"_ Cloud says, voice nearly breaking. "What do I have to do to get _rid_ of you?"

"Oh, Cloud," soft obscene emphasis on his name, like always, "you'll never be rid of me. Not entirely." Sephiroth's smile is gentle, but somehow mocking, his acid-green eyes full in equal measure of malice and a strange, patronizing adoration. Like he couldn't decide if Cloud was his enemy or a favoured pet. "I'm part of you… _inside_ you. My touch is on every cell in your body, my voice wrapped around every thought which passes through your mind… I _own_ you, Cloud, in ways even you don't understand."

"If I understood, would you be satisfied? Would you leave me _alone?"_ Cloud rasps.

"…How dull. That you would ask such a thing shows just how little you're even _capable_ of understanding," Sephiroth replies, and what is that in his voice, in his eyes, beneath the ever-present amusement at Cloud's expense—scorn, contempt, disappointment?

"Then tell me," Cloud insists.

He is not expecting Sephiroth to laugh. Certainly not a great, full laugh like this, the sort that must be excruciating with that metal spire piercing him and a part of Cloud thinks _good, you son of a bitch, now you know how Aerith felt!_ Most of him is confused, overwhelmed, upset and yes, desperate. How can Sephiroth _laugh,_ now of all times?

When Sephiroth's laughter finally subsides, there are tears in his eyes—of agony or mirth, Cloud isn't sure. Knowing Sephiroth, probably both. "Puppet," he gasps, and it could be the pain or the laughter that's made him so short of breath, _"puppet,_ I've _told_ you again and again for _centuries!_ 'None so blind…'"

He won't look away from Cloud, though the insane light in his eyes grows dimmer by the second. Cloud knows what's coming next, and the realisation makes him want to _scream._

"Will you…miss me?" Sephiroth manages to ask.

"No," Cloud answers. His voice cracks on the single syllable. He can only hope Sephiroth didn't hear; his eyes are still wide open and fixed on Cloud, but he recognises the dull, glassy stare of death.

"Please stay gone," he whispers hopelessly, but of course, there is no reply—only the beginnings of Sephiroth's corrupted Return. Cloud puts his head in his hands and keeps reminding himself that he's still alive until he believes it.

When he finally musters up the will to return to civilization, he can't help but look back at the ruins of _his_ civilization, and wonder how many more years of conflict will pass before the world he knows now looks like this too. Will the next one which follows celebrate the end of its predecessor as well? Edge's Meteorfall festival promises to be spectacular this year, as befits the pentacentennial celebration of such a momentous event. Cloud would give it a miss if he could—it's more than a little jarring to his mind, attending the celebration of Sephiroth's greatest defeat mere hours after battling him for what must be nigh-on the hundredth time. But Nanaki had decided to bring his grandcubs to the festivities this year, and even Vincent might be coaxed out of the woodwork by this rare chance at a reunion…and where Vincent goes, Shelke is sure to follow.

So Cloud straightens his spine, swallows his horror _(his despair)_ , and walks on, refusing to allow his mind to dwell on anything but the knowledge that for tonight, at least, he will be among friends. Above all, he _does not_ think about what that means for tomorrow.

* * *

 _ **A/N: So…anyone care to speculate as to the overarching theme connecting the chapters…? If it's not discernible by now, next chapter should clear it up.**_


	4. Stage Four

_**A/N: Headcanons ahead. Don't mind me…**_

* * *

 **[ν] εγλ – 0529**

"Twenty-two years," Cloud says before Sephiroth even has a chance to ask. "Think that's a new record for you."

"Mm. There wasn't a need for me to hurry. You're the only one waiting for me." If it weren't for the blood trickling from the edge of his mouth and the odd angle of his right leg, you wouldn't have known there was anything wrong with Sephiroth. Internal injuries would be what proved fatal this time; it had turned into an aerial battle towards the end, and Sephiroth hadn't landed so much as crashed.

With Cloud on top of him.

It is, Cloud thinks with morbid detachment, by far the prettiest of Sephiroth's many deaths. What little blood there is, even that touch of red at his lips, soon washes away under the rain. The rain hadn't washed Zack clean, Cloud remembers bitterly, but then, a hero didn't need to worry about how he looked at the end of his life, only that that life had been one well-lived. Whatever good Sephiroth had ever done has long since been outweighed by his sins, and Cloud finds himself strangely grateful that for now, at least, his old enemy's ugliness was all on the inside. If he wanted to, he could pretend Sephiroth isn't about to vanish again, but he is far too tired for pretending. Perhaps fortunately, he reflects, he is also too tired to _want_ to pretend—too tired to care.

"So keeping me waiting—that's your thing now?" Cloud asks dully.

"You were nearly at your wits' end the last time we spoke. I thought you'd appreciate some time to yourself."

Cloud is sure there's something in there that's meant to mock him, a word or a tone or something in the way Sephiroth looks at him, but he decides it doesn't much matter. Looking for meaning in everything Sephiroth says is too much effort anymore; their conversations could be as exhausting as their battles.

"Makes no difference to me," he says with a careless, lethargic shrug. He could swear Sephiroth is ever-so-slightly frowning. Maybe because of what he's said—or maybe because…

"We're in Wutai," Sephiroth says in a flat, neutral tone that can't possibly mean anything good.

"Taimei," Cloud corrects him. "Wutai's changed dynasties a few times over the centuries. The last one changed the Empire's name before they took over the world."

"They _what?"_ Sephiroth's tone is easy to identify: indignation. Cloud almost feels the urge to laugh. It passes quickly, but he finds himself continuing to explain. It's been a dull two decades.

"Well, Mideel held out for a while thanks to their fleet—"

"Mideel has a _fleet?"_

" _Had_ a fleet. Taimei still had superior manpower. Took out their ships just a handful at a time, knowing an island like Mideel wouldn't have the resources to rebuild in time to matter. Fort Condor didn't last as long. The Taimese knew they couldn't take the Fort by force, so they laid siege instead. Starved 'em out. Junon tried to get their replica Sister Ray working, but with the energy crisis after Meteorfall a lot of weapons technology fell by the wayside. They've been a happy little Imperial client state for close to a hundred years now. And Edge?" Cloud snorts. "That place has seen enough war. By the time the Taimese got to them, all the city's supply lines had been cut off. They had no choice but to surrender."

Sephiroth nods slowly, taking in Cloud's words but plainly distracted by other thoughts. "Where?" he asks simply, a total non-sequitur which Cloud nonetheless understands immediately.

"We're a few klicks northwest of where Crown Base used to be," he says, watching Sephiroth out of the corner of his eye for his reaction.

The significance is not lost on the former general, if the sudden blankness of his face is anything to go by. "…I see."

"I'm not positive," Cloud adds hesitantly, "but I think we're right next to the east wall of the infirmary tent."

"Ironic." Sephiroth's voice sounds almost flippant, but Cloud is watching his eyes as they dart around the clearing, up at the sky, a quick sweep of the forest floor and finally they stop, locking on the spot where, by Cloud's estimation, the command post of Forward Base Camp 01 once stood in the last days of the Wutai War. For the barest moment, the Nightmare looks oddly troubled, and Cloud wonders if they're remembering the same things—squinting at Army paperwork in vain hope of comprehension, long, tense nights of muffled lamps and silence, predawn mornings where a cup of too-strong, too-sweet coffee was an overworked private's only defense against an under-slept, irritable general.

But the moment passes and Sephiroth is as poised as ever—well, as poised as he can be, sitting on the ground and leaning against a newly-fallen tree in the rapidly-worsening downpour. His hair is drenched through. So is Cloud's, but it doesn't bother him. Hair dries, and vanity is one of Sephiroth's many vices, not his.

All the same, standing with the rain sheeting over him isn't exactly pleasant, and it is _sheeting_ now, no longer the pathetic drizzle Cloud had been content to ignore earlier. Their latest clash knocked down most of this young rainforest, and Cloud's sure the Planet won't be happy about that and neither is he right now: there's hardly any shelter to be had from the storm, and the wind is picking up, chilling his wet skin. So he sheathes his sword and trudges over to the fallen tree where Sephiroth has propped himself up and sits down beside him.

"You used to be afraid to get near me," Sephiroth observes, though Cloud isn't sure quite what he means by _used to_ —before _now,_ or _then,_ long, long ago in this very same place, back when he was sane and Cloud was mortal and they were both so very human.

"Beggars, choosers," Cloud mutters wearily. A pause, filled only by the frenzied drumming of the pouring rain, and then he shuffles closer. "You're warm."

Sephiroth laughs softly, then coughs. He takes several measured, even breaths before he speaks again. "You're quiet this evening. …No, that isn't quite it. You're _talking_ more than usual, but you could be talking to anyone. We aren't conversing. You've gone through the motions, but you've _said_ almost nothing."

"Got nothing to say."

Once again, Sephiroth seems strangely displeased by his answer. "So. You've finally given up."

"Maybe I just don't feel like _'conversing'._ That okay?" Cloud adds sarcastically.

Sephiroth makes this thoughtful little humming noise, but he doesn't say anything.

They sit in silence for a while, longer than Cloud really expected Sephiroth to last without needling him or dying, long enough that if he listens closely through the sound of the rain he can hear the little noises of the braver assorted fauna returning to their ruined home, seeking refuge of their own from the deluge.

"Must look like Diamond Weapon crashed through to them," he finds himself musing aloud.

"Dwelling on the plight of woodland creatures now, puppet?" Sephiroth asks with a sort of wry exasperation. He sounds rather short of breath. Probably has something to do with that collapsed lung—Cloud can see the bruises on Sephiroth's bare chest where ribs have broken. Honestly, how the man wasn't dead ten minutes ago is a mystery to him; _this_ is how badly injured Sephiroth is _after_ his enhanced healing factor has had time to work.

"Know the wildlife about as well as I know most people anymore."

"Am I to take that as a comment on people or the wildlife?"

"Neither." Cloud draws a knee up, resting one of his arms on it. "It's on you. Kind of hard to have a real life when the one you got revolves around killing someone else. Repeatedly. Forever."

Sephiroth smiles lazily, giving Cloud an oddly _playful_ look. "You don't know what to do with yourself when I'm gone," he says, sounding almost _pleased._

"That's what you wanna hear from that, fine," Cloud says curtly, turning his head away ever so slightly.

Sephiroth chuckles weakly, a strange, breathy sound from the most formidable man Cloud has ever known. _"Cloud,"_ he sighs, shaking his head. He would have hurt Cloud less if he'd stabbed him again. Something in the way he'd said it reminded him of Tifa.

Goddess, _Tifa…_

He closes his eyes, letting the old familiar ache slam through him. "They're all gone," he whispers thoughtlessly.

Sephiroth doesn't need to ask what he means. But to Cloud's surprise, he doesn't say anything at all. Instead, Cloud has to suppress a shiver as the strangest sensation washes over him, an intangible something-almost-pleasant through their hated connection. A sense of heat, a heartbeat not his own, a bare hand running lightly down his temple and the decline of his cheekbone; too intimate for a friend, too wary for a lover, too gentle for an enemy. There is only one certainty in this moment: be it blessing or curse, he is not alone. He lets out a soft, shuddering sigh as Sephiroth's overwhelming presence quietly withdraws from his mind, and Cloud opens his eyes again.

Sephiroth's strange green eyes are much closer than he's used to. At first, they look the same as always—cold, cruel, darkly amused—but close like this, Cloud thinks he sees more, a warped, twisted affection. He supposes he could be seeing things. He honestly isn't sure which he'd prefer anymore. Either explanation can only mean trouble for him.

"Will you miss me?" Sephiroth murmurs.

"No," Cloud lies.

Slowly, Sephiroth smirks. "It's a start," or that's what Cloud thinks he hears, but Sephiroth is beyond hearing now, terrible eyes vanishing beneath bruised-looking eyelids. For the first time, Cloud looks upon Sephiroth's face in death and feels repulsed, because he can't help thinking of how it looked in life, can't help wanting to see that for just a _moment_ more.

For the first time since the _very_ first time, little Corporal Strife barely able to support the Buster Sword's weight, Cloud looks on his fallen enemy and mourns.

* * *

 _ **A/N: I have a longstanding closely-held conviction that the Wutai War was Final Fantasy: M*A*S*H and Cloud was Radar and NO ONE CAN EVER TAKE THIS FROM ME.**_

 _ **Next chapter will be fifth and final. Thanks for reading so far!**_


	5. Stage Five

_**A/N: Remember when I mentioned I was employing S/C undertones and themes to ramp up Sephiroth's special brand of creepy? Yeah. Well. I wasn't trying to get**_ **less** _ **dark as I went, so if that's not to your taste, you have been warned. Though I hope you'll give it a shot anyway!**_

 _ **Special thanks to**_ _ **tocasia**_ _ **for stopping by and dropping reviews right from the start! Always good to know when people are enjoying, and when they're not, even for a short little piece like this.**_

 _ **Further notes at the end, but for now…**_

* * *

 **[ν] εγλ – 0772**

Panting slightly, out of breath, arms trembling with the effort of holding the Fusion Swords for all these hours on hours, Cloud stands on the broad bough of an old, huge conifer, and waits.

He knows Sephiroth is near. His presence is heavier in the air than the damp of the coming rain. He managed to break away from him and from his relentless mental assault, but he's coming. Cloud _knows._

He feels Sephiroth's approach before he hears it, and well before he sees it. Sephiroth's mind is reaching out again, seeking his, grasping, pulling, enveloping. The sensation is utterly daunting, like standing on the edge of the world and looking down to the abyss below. It would be much easier to fall than to turn back.

 _Much_ easier…

And isn't he tired of taking the hard way? It gets lonely up on the moral high ground. Who's left to care if he gives in, anyway? Nanaki has his family—hell, Nanaki is at death's door by now; even his kind don't live forever, only freaks like Cloud—and Vincent? He hasn't seen the old sniper in over a century now. Vincent never had gotten over losing the love of his life, his beloved, morally-complex Lucrecia, and helping Cloud kill her son had lost its appeal a long time ago. Even Cloud barely sees the point anymore. Why _not_ lay their long war to rest? Doesn't he crave peace above all? There's no peace in his present existence, but the darkness below is tempting, calling, waiting for him…

Cloud barely even feels it when the Fusion Swords slip from his hand; the hollow blade he'd grasped in his off-hand, it seems, has already fallen. With some surprise, oddly muted, he looks down blankly at his empty hands.

"Good boy," Sephiroth croons in his ear. Masamune's keen edge is right up against Cloud's throat, one of Sephiroth's hands on the hilt and the other pressing on the blunt back edge of the blade just in front of Cloud's right shoulder, trapping him between Sephiroth and a swift death.

"Damn it," Cloud mutters. The horror he knows he should be feeling is as distant as his other emotions. He wonders if it's Sephiroth's doing, or—

"Or if you just don't care anymore," Sephiroth finishes the thought for him. "Does it really matter?"

"'Course it does," Cloud says slowly, _forcing_ himself to mean it, pushing back at Sephiroth's control until he's reclaimed enough of himself to go on. He can still sense Sephiroth's mind hooked tight around his own, though, stiflingly close, waiting patiently for an opportunity to lunge in and take over again. "Not caring is the same as giving up."

"A prospect you were happily considering a moment ago."

Cloud scoffs. "We both know _that_ was you."

"Not entirely. There's a crucial flaw in the act of temptation; it exploits and exacerbates desire," Sephiroth muses, "but it cannot create it from nothing."

Cloud contemplates trying to break free, but soon dismisses the idea. A long-term strategy is useless with his every thought and impulse laid bare, and any sudden movements could be the death of them both, given their position…or not, given Sephiroth's wing.

Definitely not worth it, then.

Only the support of Sephiroth's body keeps him from tumbling into the real-world version of the gaping chasm he still sees in his mind's eye. It is, Cloud realises with grim amusement, an apt metaphor for the endlessly-repeating pattern of their relationship—Sephiroth is all too willing to pull Cloud down into the darkness with him, but if destroying him means _letting him go—_

"You paint a strange romance into your picture of us," Sephiroth murmurs, still much too close. "But you're still missing the point."

—if it means letting him go, it's impossible, because death isn't destruction in Sephiroth's eyes. How could it be? He wants Cloud—

"Broken," Sephiroth purrs. "Utterly and completely."

And he can't do that by letting go, oh no. Sephiroth means to break him by holding on as tightly as he can.

"Oh, puppet, I love that you never have to _ask_ what I want anymore," Sephiroth sighs, smiling contentedly; Cloud can feel his upturned lips against his skin. "Now _obey."_

With that single word, Sephiroth brings the entire force of his formidable presence to bear against Cloud's mind, hungry wanting emotions tearing at him, hatred and insanity slithering poisonously through his veins, rage and joy tangling together in a crazed frenzy that makes his blood _burn_ as for an eternal instant, he feels as Sephiroth does. At the core of everything, be it heart, soul, or consciousness, Cloud finds only a knot of twisted darkness; avarice and envy and jealousy seething in this tainted, withered place which must once have held love, devouring everything that comes in reach and never letting go. The instant that darkness brushes against him, a surge of emotion he knows isn't his overwhelms his system—emotion, or perhaps instinct— _mine, you're_ mine, _always_ as he seizes his puppet's strings, already luxuriating in the knowledge of his ultimate victory.

… _His_ …puppet?

All at once, Cloud understands, and the strings go taut, tugged sharply in two directions at once; Sephiroth pulling, Cloud holding them still.

"You're not in my mind at all, are you?" Cloud whispers. "You _couldn't_ get in. Not far enough to matter. So you let me into yours instead. No—you _pulled_ me in."

Sephiroth is very still, very quiet, and as Cloud can now feel, suddenly _very_ uneasy.

"I'm not the defender," Cloud realises, a slow, grim feeling of accomplishment and wild hope rising in him. "I'm the god'sdamn occupying force."

"But I control the field," Sephiroth reminds him.

"Not anymore. Not now that I'm here."

And Sephiroth…chuckles. Cloud's new confidence wavers.

"I wasn't talking about that," Sephiroth murmurs, lips brushing Cloud's ear as he speaks. The sharp pressure on his throat increases and Cloud is abruptly brought back to the reality of the sword braced to kill him. He tries to breathe as shallowly as possible; Masamune is beginning to draw blood. "Whatever advantage you think you've gained, it won't be enough if you aren't alive to leverage it. I don't want you dead, Cloud, not when there's _so much worse_ I can do to you, but if you must die it _will_ be at my hands. Here and now, I might slit your throat with the slightest gesture, and you could do nothing about it."

Cloud's mental grip tightens on the strings, pulling, bracing, clinging.

"Sephiroth," he breathes, warning. A soft laugh is the only sign Sephiroth gives that he's heard.

" _Or_ I might choose to take advantage of my position," Sephiroth drawls suggestively; Cloud can feel him smirk against his skin, "and simply snap your spine in two. I could, you know. It would only make it easier for me if you struggled, and on the off-chance you survived long enough to escape, well." He chuckles again. "It's a very long way down from here, isn't it?"

" _Sephiroth,"_ Cloud repeats, louder, sterner.

"Do it," Sephiroth goads. "Go on. You must be _dying_ to try it. _Control me,_ Cloud. _Make_ me let you go. Bend me to your will, _force_ me to submit to you, _on my knees_ before you, _begging_ for mercy."

Masamune lets up slightly, Sephiroth's right hand dropping from the blade and cupping Cloud's chin, turning his head towards him. Their eyes lock. "That's what you want…" Sephiroth's voice is so strangely gentle, fading to almost a whisper as he prompts Cloud:

"Isn't it?"

The words sink in, and suddenly Cloud can barely breathe, and he's the better part of a thousand years in the past, clinging to the side of ShinRa Tower with Sephiroth high above, standing proud and arrogant atop the very building in which he'd lived and worked for a decade and speaking in a low, gloating purr that somehow carried ten stories down as clearly as if he were speaking into Cloud's ear.

 _On your knees! I want you to_ beg _for forgiveness…_

Those words had been the first undeniable indication he'd had that Sephiroth's once-pragmatic focus on Cloud (the unknown quantity, the most useful pawn, and finally the greatest threat) had given way to the crazed obsession which has defined their interactions ever since. Those words had sealed Cloud's fate, marking the moment when Sephiroth had ceased to wage war on the world and drawn the battle lines between them alone instead, naming Cloud as both his enemy and his prize.

"No," Cloud says at last, the trapped air in his chest leaving him so the word is more of a sigh. "No, that's not what I want," he continues slowly, watching Sephiroth carefully. "But _you_ want it to be. You want me to sink to your level, play by your rules. Make a bunch of little sacrifices that add up so I wake up a monster one day and don't even care, just like you."

Sephiroth says nothing, looking down at him with the sharp, arch smirk and cruelly narrowed eyes that Cloud has come to accept as his default expression. And Cloud remembers other times, other words, and realises at last what has been in front of him from the beginning. It doesn't feel like learning something new. It feels as though he's known all along.

 _Stealing my last moments for yourself._

 _You don't know what to do with yourself when I'm gone._

 _You'll never be rid of me._

 _I'm part of you._

 _I own you in ways even you don't understand…_

Simple projection. That's all it is. That's all it's _ever_ been. Every chilling insight Sephiroth offers him is nothing more than a look in the mirror, _puppet, I've told you again and again for centuries!_

 _Were you lonely? (I was.)_

 _You're the only one waiting for me. (You're all I have left.)_

There are none so blind as those who will not see.

"I _do_ understand," Cloud says quietly. He doesn't let himself process the implications of what he's about to do. He just takes the fragile strings in his mental grasp and _yanks._

It's nothing even close to the power Sephiroth's demonstrated over him, but it's enough. The smile leaves Sephiroth's face; he gasps, shuddering, cringing away from Cloud and his clumsy, battering-ram assault on the rarely-tested defences of Sephiroth's mind. Masamune falls from his grip as his shaking hands fly up to futilely cover his ears, unwittingly releasing his weapon directly into Cloud's waiting hands. The blade cuts shallowly into his right hand, but Cloud ignores it, taking advantage of Sephiroth's unsteady balance and desperate recoil to lash out with the hated sword. One swift, brutal thrust, Sephiroth's own favourite finisher, and Masamune more shrieks than sings in Cloud's hands as he drives its tip straight through its master's heart and further, impaling the Nightmare against the vast trunk of the tree.

The look Sephiroth gives him is _terrifying—_ a nearly indecipherable blend of wonder, hatred, pride, betrayal, pain…and _hunger._

"I understand," Cloud repeats, and something pulls at Sephiroth's lips, a grimace, a smile? Conflicting emotions and desires still rage in his eyes and more fiercely yet behind them, making it impossible to be certain.

No drawing it out this time. The shocking, icy agony of the sword in Sephiroth's heart resonates through Cloud as surely as if the wound were his own. He feels Sephiroth's certainty, born of centuries of experience, that he is dying, and dying swiftly. Not swiftly enough for Cloud's taste, and a morbid, awful delight floods him as Sephiroth apprehends his intent seconds before he acts, yanking back hard on Masamune.

The Nightmare makes _such_ a sound as the blade clears his flesh and he falls to his knees on the knotted bark, clutching desperately at any handhold he can find to steady himself as he bleeds out at Cloud's feet. And still, Cloud can feel every beat of his haemorrhaging heart. Sephiroth's body is alive with pain, his mind glassy-clear with the inevitability of his imminent death, his senses honed to pinpoint focus and trained on the only other person left in his world. He loathes this feeling, and he needs it. Still entangled in his own strings, Cloud understands that for Sephiroth, this is _ecstasy,_ some higher state of consciousness that overwhelms all mundane concerns and stretches his fading life on into eternity.

Death is defeat, but _dying—_ dying is _release._

"Will you miss me?" Sephiroth demands, voice harsh, forced. Blood is _pouring_ from the wound his own sword has torn through him. He regrets sounding so coarse, wishes he could utter the hated and cherished question in his usual purr that makes Cloud so thrillingly uneasy.

Cloud simply wishes the question had never been asked, because now, he has to answer.

"Yes," Cloud replies, without a second of hesitation, and he means it.

The wild, vicious elation that seizes Sephiroth then is terrible to behold and even worse to feel; Cloud thinks he might be sick as the twisted emotion sweeps through him. Something deep inside him shudders and keens as, heedless of his wounds, the Nightmare throws back his head and laughs, loud and long and mad, and only stops when death forces him into silence.

Slowly, Cloud fills his lungs with damp, copper-tasting air, feeling at last as though he can truly breathe again. His left hand tightens for a moment on Masamune's hilt, but Sephiroth's blood-soaked corpse is beginning to dissolve into light, and the ghost of his sword fades to nothing in Cloud's grasp, leaving his fingers curled around empty air. He wonders idly whatever happened to the original. All rust and rotting wood by now, surely, old as it was before Sephiroth ever laid hands on it. Or maybe the odd intent of the legendary weapon is more than his imagination. Maybe Masamune has a soul of its own, and had Returned to the Planet in sympathy with its master.

He hopes swords don't have souls. The Fusion Swords have served him far too well to deserve to share in…whatever _this_ is, this piecemeal existence of his. But then, his weapons aren't here right now, are they? No one is here except for him and a fading glow of acid-green. He is alone, and he is free.

Closing his eyes, Cloud turns his face towards the storm-grey sky and wills the rain to fall.

 _ **A/N: "god'sdamn" = "Goddess-damned", for the record. 'Cause, like. Gaia and all. I didn't just have a sudden urge to insert unnecessary apostrophes or anything like that. If anyone was wondering.  
**_

 _ **Back in chapter 3, I mentioned there was an overarching theme connecting all five chapters. For anyone who hasn't guessed it yet, that theme is, odd as it sounds, the Kübler-Ross model—aka "the five stages of grief". Originally, the chapters (or rather, their first drafts) were written out of order—4 was first, as it best fit my original idea for a fic, which was roughly "what happens when the only person who's always there for you is your worst enemy". Cloud's flat, worn-down tone wasn't**_ **quite** _ **what I wanted out of him, though, and Sephiroth was a little too chill for my taste. So I wrote Cloud furious instead—chapter 2. Then I tried**_ **desperate—** _ **chapter 3.**_ _ **And finally I read all three versions of the story, realised I was looking at depression, anger, and bargaining, and put them in sequence, and thus the focus of the story moved to the gradual shift of Cloud's psychology. This last chapter, acceptance, took quite a while, since I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was I wanted Cloud to be accepting. Much like the original story concept, none of my ideas stood well on their own, so I hinted at all of them and left it open. Really, the darkness factor in this chapter is quite dependant on how you read it—if Cloud's accepting what his life has become, it's sort of bittersweet; ditto if he's accepting the idea that Sephiroth is as lost as he is, assuming Sephiroth isn't just screwing with him (a constant possibility). But if Cloud's accepting, say, that he's as dark inside as Sephiroth—whether he is or not is irrelevant—and that he's only a "hero" because the guy he's fighting has gone down in history and legend as the local equivalent of Satan, things start to look a little more bleak.**_

 _ **So there it is. Hope everyone's enjoyed the ride, even if only in a train-wreck kind of way! The day-to-day keeps getting in the way, but it's good to be writing for this fandom again. If the spirit moves you to leave a review, I'm always glad for feedback. 'Til next time!**_


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